


the art of mending

by TheGingerAvenger



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Child Abuse, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just want them all to be friends, JT cares and he hates it, Murder, Nausea, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:26:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGingerAvenger/pseuds/TheGingerAvenger
Summary: "He's not going to pop out from behind the bookshelves," Dani says, not looking up from the dead body sprawled out on the floor.JT snorts. "Wouldn't put it past him."-In which Malcolm has a very bad night and skips out on a crime scene, JT swears he's not worried at all and almost believes it, Dani contemplates killing Dr. Whitly, and Edrisa makes some soup.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being longer than I expected it to be, so it's cut into two chapters. Possibly three or four. The downside to that is that the hurt/comfort doesn't really start until the next chapter but it is coming!

The pancake smiles up at him; two plump blueberry eyes, a fringe of whipped cream hair, sliced strawberries a bright red slash of a smile.

Malcolm stares down at it, transfixed, pulled into the strawberries’ color. The same red of his father’s favorite sweater. Bright. Vivid. Angry.

_Sit still, dammit!_

A headache flares in his temples and he squeezes his eyes shut against it. Malcolm sucks in a sharp breath and pulls away from the memory of his father’s shout, tries to focus on the smell of pancakes, the cool breeze drifting in through the cabin's open kitchen window. Pressing his feet against the wooden floor, he immediately pulls them back up into the chair with a wince. Even through the bandages, his feet are still achy and sore, the skin torn and bruised from branches and rocks.

Slowly, he opens his eyes again and glances out the window. Tree branches rustle in the wind, leaves twirling lazily through the air. It looks almost peaceful, so different from the looming black silhouettes and reaching fingers of last night. The only car in the cabin’s driveway is his father’s. No dented pickup truck that smells like smoke and fast food.

Confusion churns his stomach. The same confusion that’s been following him for weeks, making it impossible to tell between moments that are real and those that are just dreams, just nightmares. There’s no pickup truck outside, but his feet are scratched and if he brings his shirt sleeve up to his nose and inhales deeply, he can still catch the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke.

Malcolm slides a look at his father. His dad faces the small stove, back turned to his son, whistling softly under his breath as he fiddles with two steaming mugs. He seems happy, as happy and kind as he’s always been, not like he’s angry at Malcolm, or disappointed in him. And he would mention if Malcolm had done something that disappointed him or made him angry, wouldn’t he?

So maybe it didn’t happen.

And yet . . .

Malcolm breathes slowly through his nose and focuses back on his plate and tries to piece together the fuzzy memories breaking apart like strands of smoke in his head.

He ran. He remembers that. His father wanted to show him something, but Malcolm hadn’t wanted to see it. His father had been more excited than Malcolm had ever seen before and he had tried to stay, he had tried to be a good son, but he couldn’t, and he ran. Up the stairs, out the door, into the woods, his father’s angry shout chasing after him.

He’d run down the winding road, where the trees’ shadows turned into reaching monsters, until an old pickup truck pulled to a stop on the road beside him.

His father places a mug on the table in front of him, breaking him out of his memory. Grey wisps of steam unfurl upwards, tugging the mouthwatering scent of chocolate behind.

“A peace offering,” his father says, and this makes Malcolm look up at him, surprised. He’s smiling down at his son, wider than the pancake. “For last night.”

For the first time since waking up that morning, Malcolm feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. He smiles tentatively up at his dad and pulls the mug closer, thinking giddily about how upset his mother will be about all this sugar for breakfast. This is what he imagined when his father suggested the camping trip. This and not . . .

Malcolm wraps his hands tighter around the mug, good mood curdling. Heat seeps into the skin of his palms, just shy of unbearable. If this is an apology for last night, then some of it must have happened.

“Where’d the nice man go?” He asks before he can talk himself out of it. The nice man with the long beard and the scuffed and muddy brown boots. The nice man with the voice of rough leather, who found him in the woods and drove him back. Malcolm can’t remember hearing him drive away from the cabin. He can’t remember much past his father bandaging his feet- _“you only have yourself to blame, Malcolm”_\- and putting him to bed. He can’t remember if he heard the truck, loud and rumbling and belching smoke, pull away from the drive and for some reason, he _needs_ to know what happened.

His father’s smile stills, flattens, and Malcolm shies away until his dad blinks and his expression softens again.

“Drink your hot chocolate, Malcolm, and then we’ll go see him.”

Pleased, Malcolm dutifully drinks and even manages a few bites of pancake. His father talks about the birds they can hear through the open window, their wing structure, the delicate bones that make up their skeleton, not as fascinating as humans, in his father’s opinion, but close enough. Malcolm marvels at how much his father knows. He’s sure his dad knows everything there can be to know.

Half of the pancake’s smile is gone before the fork falls from Malcolm’s limp fingers. He blinks and the room shifts around him, tilting and dripping as colors and sounds bleed together. Squeezing his eyes shut hard, he tries to block out the dizziness. Opening them again is harder, his eyelids feel weighted, heavy, and when he does manage it, the room is still blurry, still shifting and moving. His breath rattles in his lungs, a panicked whine, as fear thrums through his veins. His dad appears beside him, gently stopping him from tilting off the edge of the stool.

“There, there, Malcolm. I’ve got you.”

.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in the basement. Everything muted in greys and blacks and dull browns except for the blue canvas that covers a long lump on the worktable in front of him. Malcolm’s breath stills in his lungs as his eyes track down the length of the tarp until he reaches the end of the table.

The tarp isn’t quite long enough to cover the pair of muddy and scuffed brown boots.

Panic constricts his chest, forces the breath out of his lungs in a low whine. Malcolm moves to stand but he can’t. Rough rope wraps tight around his wrists, binding him to the chair. With a strangled cry, he pulls against the rope until it burns the skin of his wrist, terror tightening his throat like a squeezing hand, tears streaming down his cheeks, pleading to be let go, to just be let go, he doesn’t want to be here, please.

His father crouches down in front of him, smiling that wide, sliced strawberry smile, and ruffles his hair.

“There,” he says, pleased. “Now you can’t leave.”

* * *

Malcolm jerks awake with a scream shredding his throat. The nightmare still clings to him with dragging fingers; flashing images, stuttering sounds, the restraints around his wrists nothing more than bits of rope tying him down and he wants to leave _he needs to leave_.

He spits the mouthguard out of his mouth and sucks in a desperate, tattered gulp of air, and then another, another, each one too thin. Each one not enough to stop his head from spinning. His heart hammers in his chest as he kicks at the blankets tangled around his legs, every ragged breath raw with terror. He needs to move, he needs to move, he needs to move.

His fingers fumble for the latches on the old restraints, falling into the old muscle memory movements, and his panic spikes when he misses. It takes two dizzying seconds before he catches on the new latches and breaks free hard enough to send him tumbling over the edge of the bed.

Nausea rises sharp and unrelenting just as he stumbles into the bathroom, knees cracking against cold tiles as he heaves into the toilet. There’s not much. He hardly managed to eat anything for dinner the night before, and he’s left dry heaving until his stomach screams in protest and his throat burns.

When he’s finally finished, he collapses to the side, half propped up against the wall, half sprawled onto the cold floor, trembling violently and gasping, tears mixing with sweat. A low, whining sound fills his ears and it takes a disorienting moment for him to realize it’s coming from his own mouth.

With a low moan, he slides all the way down to the floor and curls into a ball, fingers tangling through the strands of his hair and squeezing. Flashes of images play behind his closed eyes no matter how hard he tries to block them out, to push them back down to whatever depths they crawled out of. The muddy boots. His father’s smile. The way the pickup truck driver’s eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled.

The feel of rope tight and rough around his wrists. The sensation of not being able to move.

And the truck driver . . . the truck driver . . .

Malcolm shies away from that memory with a ragged groan. He sucks in a shuddering breath and curls tighter, knees pressed to his chest, fingers clenching his hair tighter. “It’s just a dream,” he wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to hurt. “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream.”

But it’s not. It holds the same weight as his dreams of the girl in the box. The same vividness of his mother warning him that he doesn’t know what his father is capable of. The same detail of his father pressing a chloroformed rag against his mouth. It’s not just a nightmare. It’s a memory.

And the weight of that truth presses unrelentingly down against him until all he can do is sob against his knees.

* * *

JT never thought the day would come when the weirdest thing about a crime scene is Bright’s absence.

They’re in the house of a CEO who ran into the wrong end of a heavy, blunt object. Half of his brains are splattered across the polished wooden floors and the thick, expensive-looking journals on the bookshelves in a disgusting display that Bright will no doubt gush over when he finally makes it.

_If _he ever makes it.

The crime scene feels oddly quiet without Bright flitting about like a tiny, twittering bird on speed. Just a few officers milling about the house, searching for clues, their voices low and muffled, and Edrisa and her team setting up to examine the body before preparing to move it. It’s unnerving. Like the calm before a very bad, very big, very Bright shaped storm.

JT peers out the window, the golden sunshine lighting against perfectly trimmed bushes, and when he sees no suit-clad profiler hiding out in the foliage, he turns to the bookshelves. There’s a shadowed corner between two of the heavy, imposing shelves that’s just dark enough and just wide enough for Bright to lurk in if he’s trying to be dramatic.

“He’s not going to pop out from behind the bookshelves,” Dani says, not looking up from the dead body sprawled out on the floor.

JT snorts. “Wouldn’t put it past him.” He gives the shelves one last cursory look before turning to his partner with a frown, arms crossed over his chest. “You can’t say this isn’t weird. He should be here by now. I’m pretty sure his murder radar goes off whenever someone gets their head bashed in.”

Dani sits back on her heels and glances up at him, lips curling in a smile and one eyebrow rising. “Careful, JT. Sounds like you almost want him to be here.”

“I don’t.” Scowling at her grin, JT shoves a hand in Edrisa’s direction, dropping his voice to a low hiss. “I’m just tired of her moping around like someone kicked her puppy. She needs her freaky soulmate to talk about gruesome murders with.”

“Whatever you say.” Dani’s smile doesn’t fade, even when she turns back to examining the body. ‘I just think it’s cute you two have finally bonded enough for you to miss him.”

“Shut up.” JT crosses his arms tighter across his chest and if he happens to keep glancing at the door, it’s because he’s waiting for Gil. That’s all. He's not really sure when Bright's presence on cases shifted from an annoying intrusion to an accepted, and expected, part of his job, but somewhere between getting bitten by snakes and throwing people off buildings and getting high as a kite (which JT is still upset he missed) Bright became a part of the job. A fact JT still doesn't know how he feels about. 

When Gil finally walks into the room a few minutes later, mouth set into a deep frown, JT surreptitiously glances behind him for any sign of the profiler, even though he already knows Bright isn’t with Gil. The man’s chaotic energy doesn’t allow him to enter a room unnoticed. And JT doesn’t need to be a detective to know the worried expression on Gil’s face means trouble.

Despite her teasing, Dani pushes herself immediately to her feet the moment Gil walks towards them. Even Edrisa almost knocks over a police officer in her haste to get closer.

“Where’s the weirdo?” JT asks in lieu of a hello and takes a quick step to the side to avoid the elbow Dani aims for his ribs.

Gil doesn’t even shoot him his patented “be nice” look. Instead, he sighs, a long, exhausted sound. “I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to call him all morning.”

“Is it normal for him not to answer?” Dani asks.

“No.” Gil turns his frown to the body, but JT can tell he’s not really seeing it, mind ticking through all the reasons why Malcolm Bright can’t answer his phone.

Knowing the amount of trouble Bright gets into on a daily basis, the list can’t be very comforting.

“Why don’t you try calling him one more time?” Dani keeps her voice soft enough that JT almost doesn’t hear the note of worry underneath. “We’ve got this covered for now.”

“Yeah,” JT pipes up. “I don’t want to listen to him whine about missing out on the crime scene all day.”

Gil nods his head distractedly as he pulls his phone out again, moving to the relative privacy of the other side of the room.

Watching him go, JT frowns, tapping an erratic beat on his forearms. Dani crouches back down by the body, but her pen stays poised and still over an empty page. Edrisa, for her part, stares openly at Gil like she can surmise what he’s saying if she looks at the back of his head hard enough.

Gil stands with his back to them, shoulders tense, phone pressed against his ear. A few seconds later, he pulls it away with a muttered curse before jabbing the screen with his finger and pressing it back against his ear. Another unanswered call.

And then, against all odds, Gil’s posture stiffens even more. JT catches the edge of an alarmed _“Malcolm_” before Gil strides through the doorway and out of hearing.

JT shares an alarmed glance with Dani. Something a little too close to worry coils tight in his chest. In all his years working with Gil, he’s only heard the man sound that worried a handful of times. None of those instances ended well.

All pretenses of pretending to work abruptly ended, Edrisa moves closer to hover beside them, twisting her gloved hands together. “Do you think he’s okay?” She asks.

“He’s probably dying,” JT mutters.

That earns him an exasperated glance from Dani as she stands and an aghast gasp from Edrisa. 

"Really, JT?" Dani hisses.

“What?” JT says, defensive. “The dude’s got a guilt complex the size of New York. He won’t skip out on stopping a killer.” At Dani’s raised eyebrow, JT scowls and looks away. “What? Just ‘cause I don’t like the guy doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention. I’m a detective.”

“Yeah,” Dani drawls and JT does not appreciate the mischievous glint in her eye. “You sure do hate the guy.”

Gil saves JT from having to respond. He wanders back into the room, face lined and pale, like he’s taken on some of Bright’s normal exhaustion. Lines of concern gather around the edges of his eyes and mouth. He still grips the phone in his hand, still holds it halfway to his ear, like he’s seconds away from calling Bright again.

Edrisa pounces on him before he can start to speak. “Is he okay?”

Gil stops and blinks like he’s already forgotten they’re there before he shakes his head. “No,” he says with a sigh. “He’s not.”

“What’s wrong? Is he sick? Does he need soup? Crackers? A blanket?”

Holding up a hand to stop Edrisa’s question, Gil shakes his head. “He just needs to rest. He’s going to sit this one out.”

JT and Dani share a weighted look, but Gil cuts his hand through the air, putting a stop to any further questions.

“The best thing we can do for Bright now is to find this killer,” he says. “So let’s get back to work.”

He waits until they each nod their heads and turn back to the crime at hand. Edrisa heads back to her assistants, mumbling something about soup underneath her breath, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

JT crouches down beside Dani while Gil goes to talk to one of the first officers who arrived on the scene. Tries to focus on the body, on the case in front of them, instead of on all the _what if’s_ crowding for attention in his head. Instead, he leans closer to Dani and drops his voice to a whisper. “How bad do you think it has to be,” he asks, and it’s not concern that twists his voice, it’s _not_. “For him to actually admit he’s not okay?”

Dani doesn’t say anything in response, but the way she presses her lips into a tight line is answer enough.

Whatever is going on with Malcolm Bright is very, very bad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to anyone expecting more Edrisa out of this chapter. I couldn't think of a way to get her into Malcolm's apartment without completely short-circuiting.

The quiet grates against Dani’s skin. She hasn’t realized how well and truly integrated Bright’s become at the station until now, when his absence seems to fill every inch of the room. She keeps glancing out the corner of her eyes, expecting him to be standing in his usual spot, frowning up at the murder board, scribbling notes and muttering to himself.

Unease rises in her chest, but she pushes it back and pulls a picture off the board.

The case turned out to be the most straightforward one they’ve had in a long time. Out of all the threats the CEO received over the years, only one disgruntled ex-partner threatened, in writing, to bludgeon him over the head. After bringing the suspect in for interrogation, the man folded after one stern look from Gil. Open and shut in a matter of hours.

She almost wishes it hadn’t been so easy. She needs something to distract herself, to put her mind at work, instead of imagining what’s wrong with Bright. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she breathes in slow and tamps down on the worry that unfurls in her stomach. Bright is a grown man who’s been dealing with his demons for a long time. He’ll be fine. Maybe if she repeats that enough times in her head, she’ll actually start to believe it.

The heavy tread of boots drags her attention to the door to see JT lean his shoulder against the frame. He nods his head at the board. “You know, that case was really easy.”

Dani grunts in reply.

“Almost suspiciously easy.”

Her hand freezes halfway to the next picture and she slides a glance in his direction. They’ve been partners long enough that she recognizes that tone; the light pitch that aims for causal and always falls a mile short. JT ignores her stare and keeps looking pointedly at the board.

“He admitted to the crime,” Dani says and lets her hand fall back to her side, picture untouched. “Can’t get much easier than that.”

JT pushes himself off the frame and shrugs his shoulder. The movement causes her eyes to catch on the small thermos in his hands- she’s pretty sure, from the coffin sticker, that it’s Edrisa’s- and the bottle in his other. That, and the fact that he still won’t meet her eyes, sends her curiosity spiking.

“He did,” JT agrees. “But what if we missed something? What if he’s taking the fall for someone else or we’re somehow missing some clue in the killer’s psyche?”

Suddenly, everything makes sense. Dani glances down at her feet, presses her lips together to fight off a smile, before she turns to face JT completely, arms folded over her chest. “The killer’s psyche, huh? And how do we figure that out, exactly?”

“If only we had a resident whack-job whose specialty was getting inside creepy murderers’ brains.”

She glances back at the board, shots of the victim’s injury, blood spatter, the murder weapon, and her smile fades. “We should leave him alone. He needs to rest.” Though, knowing him, she’s sure Bright is doing everything but resting.

Sighing, JT’s gaze drifts out into the precinct, jaw clenching. “It helps,” he says, slowly, “Sometimes, to have other people around. And it’s easier letting people in when they’ve asked than asking people yourself.”

Dani frowns at him. She wonders, sometimes, what he’s seen while he was in the service. She knows he keeps in touch with some of his friends, knows he visits a lot of the VA hospitals in his downtime. Wonders how much experience he’s had in dealing with his own and other people’s PTSD.

Finally, he glances back at her. “All I’m saying is we swing by his place, see if he’s up to using his profiler mumbo-jumbo, and then be on our merry way.”

Dani tilts her head to the side and raises an eyebrow. “Is this really about his profiler mumbo-jumbo or are you just concerned about him?”

“Look, Edrisa made some soup for him down in her morgue and she won’t stop bothering me about it until I give it to him.” JT holds the thermos and gives it a little frustrated shake, lips curled in disgust. “Because nothing makes people feel better than soup made next to a dead person.”

Dani rolls her eyes with a smile.

“Send him a text,” JT prompts. “Just see if he’s up for it, that’s all. If he is, great. We can kill two birds with one stone. If not, I’m dumping this soup out the window and we’ll tell her he loved it.”

Dani has to admit it’s a smart move. They come at Bright head-on with the intention of checking in on him, and Bright will balk and brush their concerns away with a smart remark. But if they hide it behind the guise of needing his help with a case, then he might let them in.

Glancing back at the board, Dani chews her bottom lip before she caves and pulls her phone out of her pocket. She shoots Bright a quick text, making it as clear as possible that it’s fine for him to say no. JT moves across the room to peer over her shoulder as they wait for a response.

It takes a full three minutes for Bright’s answer.

_Sure._

“My grandma texts faster than that,” JT mutters.

She turns to tell him to stop but the words die on her lips when she catches sight of the drink in his hand. “Is that Gatorade?”

JT’s expression closes. He tucks the bottle underneath his arm like he can hide it from her view and takes a step away from her. “Maybe. Let’s go.”

“You hate Gatorade,” Dani presses.

“So?”

“So,” Dani says, and it takes every ounce of her willpower not to grin. “Why do you have it?”

“It’s got electrolytes, alright? My mom used to force it on me anytime I got sick. There’s a chance he’s been sick and not eating, and he needs some energy to use that weird brain of his or what’s the point of us going over there?” JT snaps, flustered. “It’s not a big deal, now let’s go.”

This time Dani can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. JT scowls back at her and storms out of the office, shouting over his shoulder for her to hurry up and meet him in the car or he’s leaving her behind. He passes Gil on the way out, who stops and does a double-take when he catches sight of the bottle still not completely hidden under JT’s arm.

“I thought you hated Gatorade,” Gil calls after him.

“I do!” JT growls and disappears around the corner in an irritated huff.

Gil raises an eyebrow at her as Dani starts to follow JT out, sliding her coat on as she moves. “What’s gotten into him?”

“He’s started to develop feelings,” she says on her way by, smirking. “And he’s very angry about it.”

* * *

It takes Bright so long to answer his door that Dani seriously considers knocking it down. It’s thick and made of heavy enough steel that her boots won’t do much good, but she’s about to try anyway until she hears Bright muttering curses on the other side, the muffled rattle and squeak of a stubborn lock, and then the door swings open.

The breath freezes in her lungs.

She thought she’s seen Bright at his worst; bruise-like circles under his eyes, shaky, somehow managing to vibrate with chaotic energy while simultaneously looking like he’s about to pass out. But now he looks _sick_, stare unfocused, skin drained of color, two seconds away from needing an ambulance.

Dressed in a t-shirt and baggy sweatpants, he peers at them through squinted eyes. Even in the dim lighting of the doorway, she can tell they’re bloodshot. He leans against the door like it’s the only thing stopping him from tumbling out into the street and suddenly Dani isn’t sure this was such a good idea. He looks like he needs to be unconscious in bed, not forcing himself to move around to look at a gruesome murder they’ve already solved.

There’s a brief, shocked silence that weighs between them until JT finally speaks.

“Ah,” he says, voice dry. “So you do own normal clothes.”

It takes a second longer than normal for Bright’s eyes to focus on JT as the other man slips past him, careful not to bump into him. An even longer second for Bright to start speaking and when he does, his voice is a thin, raw rasp. “You don’t think suits are normal clothes?”

“Maybe for a rich preppy kid.”

“I am a rich preppy kid. Besides, if I dare walk out in public dressed in anything less than designer, she’ll descend upon me in all her wrathful vengeance.”

“Who?” Dani asks.

“My mother.” Bright shuffles back enough to allow her to step inside. She waits in the entryway while he shuts the door and locks it, trembling fingers struggling with the latch, lips pressed into a frustrated line. When he finally gets it to slide, he looks at her with a raised, unamused eyebrow, but she just slides a hand through the air, gesturing him to go ahead in front of her.

Bright looks amusingly like a petulant child as he rolls his eyes, but he walks in front of her anyway, pace slow and unsteady enough that she pulls her hands out of her pockets in case she needs to catch him should he collapse. While he doesn’t fall, by the time they’ve made it to the kitchen his face has lost the little bit of color it had and the tremors in his hand have worsened.

He stops in front of the kitchen bar and sways a little before announcing, “I think I’m just going to sit right here.” The way he sits on the floor looks more like a collapse than a controlled movement, his expression taking on a sickly tinge. “This bit of the floor is underappreciated.”

Dani frowns down at him. “Have you eaten anything?”

Bright starts to shake his head and then freezes, eyes squeezing shut tight. “I’m not hungry,” he mutters.

He opens his eye in time to catch the look Dani and JT share and waves a dismissive hand. His tremors have worsened enough that they turn the movement into a shaky wobble; a far cry from reassuring. “I’m fine.”

JT stops his blatant perusal of Bright’s wall of weapons to shoot him an exasperated look. “Do you even know what that word means?”

Ignoring him, Bright looks up at Dani, holding out a hand for the files. “Show me the murder.”

She settles onto the floor beside him like it’s completely normal and spreads the files out. While she explains the basics of the case, JT continues wandering around Bright’s apartment with blunt curiosity, taking in the twittering parakeet with raised brows. She knows the exact moment he spots the restraints amidst the rumpled sheets on Bright’s bed; he jerks to a startled halt, mutters a fierce and firm “Nope” and pivots abruptly away.

Bright doesn’t even spare him a glance, gaze still glued to the files in front of him. Dani tries and fails to ignore the way his hands shake when he attempts to grab one of them, spilling papers and pictures onto the floor with a frustrated curse.

Without saying a word, she gathers up the spilled papers, trying to convey that this is fine, while JT wanders back over. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bright clench his hands into white-knuckled fists in his lap, but she doesn’t make a comment. Trying to let him take a moment to relax.

After scowling in a way that clearly shows he considers sitting on the floor beneath him, JT settles down cross-legged in front of them and carefully pushes the bottle of Gatorade towards Bright. “Here,” he says, and his voice sounds so fakely casual that Dani ducks her head to hide her smile. “I accidentally bought this. Thought you could at least drink it.”

Bright blinks at it. Dani can practically see the words turning around and around in his head. “You . . .accidentally bought it?”

“Yes.” JT grunts and shakes the bottle when Bright makes no move to grab it. “I thought it was something else.”

Bright pointedly looks at the bright orange cap, the Gatorade logo in full view, and slowly looks back at JT. “You thought it was something else?” He repeats.

JT’s jaw clenches and he speaks through gritted teeth, holding the bottle out even farther. “Take. The. Damn. Bottle. Bright.”

Finally, Bright grabs it, though he makes no move to open it. Instead, he stares down at it and Dani can see the thoughts firing in his mind, connections forming slower than normal, before he slowly looks back up at JT, a wide grin spreading across his face.

JT holds up a finger before Bright can speak. “Say one word and I’m tossing it out of the window.”

Bright keeps his mouth shut but his smile slides into something more genuine, pleased.

“Edrisa also made you some soup,” Dani says and sets the thermos on the floor beside his leg.

“Morgue soup,” JT adds.

Bright’s eyebrows rise. “Haven’t tried that flavor.”

“She’s expecting a detailed review of it,” Dani says. “So, you’d better eat at least some of it. She’s gonna ask you about it when we call.”

Bright’s lips twist into a grimace and he eyes the thermos like it’s poisoned. But he picks it up and forces himself to take a small sip. He makes a pleased sound, eyes glinting. “It’s good,” he declares, setting it back down beside his knee. “Just a hint of formaldehyde.”

“Knew it,” JT mumbles.

Bright’s smile is faint as he waves his hand through the air. “What do we know about the victim?”

JT starts listing all the different details they know about the victim, his life, his job, but halfway through Dani realizes Bright’s been uncharacteristically silent. She glances at him sidelong. His eyes are unfocused, staring down at his lap, trapped in something she’s very glad she can’t see, and now that she’s looking, she can hear the faint hitch in his breath, a stuttering, ragged noise.

She shares a worried look with JT before turning to face Bright. Touching him seems out of the question. She doesn’t want to startle him. Making any sudden movements or loud noises is out as well. So, she does the only thing she can think of; she starts talking, her voice even and soft, loud enough to maybe catch his attention and pull him back to the present, but not loud enough to cause distress. She goes over more details of the case, JT throwing in a few comments, and then repeats herself when Bright doesn’t move. She keeps talking, trying to ignore her increasing worry, the spiraling sense of helplessness, until Bright sucks in a ragged gasp, whole body jerking.

Dani stops midsentence and waits. Bright’s face has turned a sickly shade, he looks two seconds away from puking up what little bit of soup he managed to swallow. His eyes squeeze shut; hands clenched tight in his lap. Both Dani and JT lean forward an inch, just in case he really does end up being sick and needs help. But a few seconds of deep breaths, and he slowly opens his eyes again, pointedly not looking at either of them.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s cool, dude,” JT says at the same time Dani tells him “It’s fine.”

He breathes out one slow breath and pulls a file closer to him, looking at it like it’s the only thing in the room. Tremors shake his hand, worse than before, and he tries to smother them by shoving his hand under his leg, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

Without looking at him, Dani slides her hand out in the space between their knees, the back of her knuckles resting on the floor, fingers spread out. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t look. Just waits and offers silently.

Finally, she feels his hand settle into hers, shaking fingers twining with her own, and she squeezes, once and gently, before keeping his hand in hers. Hold light enough that he can pull away if he wants.

JT’s brow creases with concern. “Maybe we should call Edrisa,” he says abruptly, pulling the phone out of his pocket. “So she can share all the gory details about the body.”

As JT dials, Bright straightens and gives his head a little shake, silently preparing himself to pull his _I’m fine_ act on the mortician. He taps the fingers of one hand against his thumb, one at a time, a steady _one-two-three-four-one-two-three-four_ that seems to help ground him.

Edrisa, predictably, picks up on the first ring. “Detective Tarmel, hello! Fancy hearing from you this afternoon. Completely and totally unexpected.” 

JT’s stare rolls to the ceiling. “Hey, Edrisa. We’re here at Bright’s place. Think you can go over the details of the vic’s death?”

“Oh!” Edrisa’s voice brightens tenfold. “Of course! Uh, hello, Mr. Bright.”

“Good afternoon, Edrisa.” Bright winces at the rough rasp of his voice and forces a shaky smile onto his face. “The soup was delicious, thank you.”

The slight pause on the other end of the phone is the only indication that Edrisa noticed how bad he sounds. Then she launches into a long and rambling story about her soup, that somehow melds perfectly into a description of the body and the cause of death, with equally long and rambling side notes and stories of similar cases and interesting tidbits she thought he’d like to know.

As she talks, Dani’s struck with the urge to give the other woman a hug. The more Edrisa talks, the more relaxed Bright becomes. She asks enough questions to coax him into the conversation, distracting him enough that the tremors in his hands relax. He even takes a few sips of the Gatorade.

JT tries, and fails, not to look smug.

By the time they say goodbye to Edrisa, Bright seems a little closer to himself. Some of the tension has drained from his shoulders, the haunted look lingering around his eyes faded, the smiles less forced and strained. His eyes take on the same light they do when he’s puzzling over a case, steadily teasing out a profile.

“It looks like a classic case of an anger killing. This was done quickly, at the height of emotion, it-“ Bright frowns down at the files, at the paperwork spread out in front of them, including the incriminating letter from the ex-partner, and then looks up at Dani, eyebrows furrowed. “You couldn’t figure out who the killer was?”

Dani keeps her expression straight as she looks back at him, almost willing him to understand. “Nope.”

“It’s a real head-scratcher,” JT drawls.

Bright’s stare flicks between the two of them before his eyes widen in understanding. A range of emotions flashes across his face before he drops his gaze back down to the files. He reaches out one hand and uses a finger to slide a file closer to him, pretending to carefully study it.

“Well, it _is _a bit of a head-scratcher,” he mumbles, and if his voice happens to be a little scratchier than normal, Dani doesn’t comment. “It might take even me a little while longer to figure it out, if you guys have the time to wait around.”

JT shrugs and leans back against the counter. “Don’t see why not. We’d be doing the same thing at the station.”

Bright looks up at grins, wide and infectious, and Dani returns it.

It’s still not an easy visit. Now that the pretense of needing his help is up, they drift into random conversation topics. He talks about other gruesome cases he worked on while with the FBI, much to JT’s increasing disgust. Dani tries not to feel disappointed when he only takes a few more small sips of soup. He zones out more than once and at one point his hand shakes hard enough to knock her own knuckles against the floor. When he mutters an apology and tries to pull away, she squeezes his hand once to let him know it’s okay and after a few tense seconds, he relaxes and keeps his hand in hers.

At one point, he does race to the bathroom with far more agility than she expected, and they both sit in silence and pretend they can’t hear him dry heaving in the bathroom.

Dani stares down at her hands, clenched tight in her lap, torn between wanting to check on him, to make sure he’s okay, and giving him some space. Anger flares, bright and hot and all-consuming, and she’s hit with the urge to put a bullet in Martin Whitly’s head.

He wanders back in looking haunted, shaking, and JT starts talking like nothing happened. Rambling about some game the night before, with the players, and that one cool move that one famous player made with the ball, until Bright’s eyes focus back on him.

When he makes a comment about knowing JT had watched “the game”, the amusement that flickers across Bright’s face is weak, but it’s something.

Bright catches her raised eyebrow as he slowly sits down again. “It’s a-“

She holds up a hand to cut him off, shaking her head. “I don’t really need to know. You two can keep your weird inside joke.”

Bright’s smile widens. “It is an inside joke, isn’t it?” He glances at an exasperated looking JT in utter delight. “Friends have inside jokes!”

“Best friends,” Dani corrects and grins at the disgruntled look JT shoots her.

“Let’s not push it,” JT grumbles.

It’s almost dark by the time they decide to leave. They still technically have paperwork waiting for them back at the station and Dani does want to get in some sleep before her shift the next morning. It’s a testament to how exhausted he is that Bright actually listens to them when they tell him not to follow them to the door. Still, he pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the bar.

“Thank you for coming, JT.” Bright places a hand on his shoulder and smiles serenely up at him. “I always knew you had a big heart.”

“Man, get that hand off me before I break it,” JT snaps halfheartedly, jerking his shoulder out from under Bright’s hand.

Bright’s smile softens when he looks at Dani. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Dani shrugs a shoulder. “Anytime,” she says, and makes sure to look him in the eye. “Seriously.”

Bright nods solemnly and Dani gives his shoulder a squeeze before following JT out of Bright’s apartment and down the stairs to the front door. He jerks it open and they both grind to a startled halt.

Gil stands in the doorway, one fist poised to rap his knuckles against the door. Surprise flickers across his face before he grins. “I was wondering where the two of you disappeared to,” he says. “Got any work done?”

Dani’s stare drops to the bag in Gil’s hand. Hopefully more food. “Oh, yeah. Bright was a big help in narrowing down the suspect pool.”

Gil’s smile widens enough to crinkle the corner of his eyes. “Was he now? Well, it was very smart of you to come here.”

With a smirk, Dani swats JT on the shoulder. “Oh, it was all JT’s idea,” she says, twisting to the side to slip past Gil. “He just couldn’t wait to see Bright.”

JT’s expression sours as Gil chuckles and he growls, “I’m gonna need you to find me a new partner.” But even he can’t squash his smile at the sound of Bright’s laughter cackling from up the stairs.

Cold stings her cheeks when she steps outside, Gil closing the door behind her, muffling whatever greeting he shouts up at Malcolm. Dani takes two steps towards JT’s car but stops and turns to stare up at Bright’s place. All she can see is the light from his window, a warm golden glow against the deepening night, but revealing no clue as to what the two men are doing inside. Still, she hopes Gil at least can get him to eat. And sleep. Maybe talk about whatever’s bothering him.

JT stops beside her and follows her stare, forehead creasing in concern. “Think he’ll be all right?”

She doesn’t say he will, doesn’t really know the answer herself, so instead, she just grins. “Aw, you really do have a big heart.”

JT doesn’t quite manage to twist his smile into a scowl. “Get in the car before I leave you.”

She laughs but does what he asks, sliding into the passenger seat of the car.

Leaning back against the seat, Dani closes her eyes and breathes in deep, trying to dispel any lingering worry. She’s not naïve enough to think they’ve made everything better. She’s still sure he’s going to have a hard night and many more to come, but she hopes they helped some. Gave him a few hours of distraction, of comfort, of company. She thinks back to the way he smiled when they were leaving, to the way his voice softened when he thanked her for coming and hopes that at least he knows he’s part of a team now. That he’s got friends who care. People who will come over and help push back his demons, anytime he needs them.


End file.
